


Wild Child

by Sermocinare



Category: Watchmen - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Supernatural, Fluff, M/M, Transformation, Werewolves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-03
Updated: 2011-05-03
Packaged: 2017-10-18 22:47:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,687
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/194132
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sermocinare/pseuds/Sermocinare
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Byron is a werewolf. Bill finds out about it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wild Child

At first, Byron had assumed that everyone was like him. That there was nothing unusual about being locked into his special room for three nights a month, around the full moon. He even liked it, because on those days, his parents paid special attention to him. His father was a very important and busy man, and his mother had so many friends that Byron spent most of the time with his nanny and governess. But on those days, it wasn't the nanny who put him to bed, but his mom. "Sleep now," she would say, kissing his forehead, "and in the morning, you will wake up, and it will be over, just like a dream."

He didn't remember much of the nights at first. His mind, still simple and innocent, couldn't comprehend it. He knew something happened to him on those nights, and that it was a bit scary and strange, but it felt more like a dream than anything else. But he knew it wasn't a dream, because sometimes, when he came to again the next morning, he would be scratched or bruised. His father, who would always be the one to check on him in the mornings, would then ruffle his hair and call Byron his wild child. And Byron would smile.

But then, the week before his first day of school, his parents took him aside. It wasn't one of those days, but even so, they sat him down on the sofa between them. His mother stroked his cheek, and said: "Byron, your father and I have to talk to you about something. It's very important, so we want you to listen carefully."

Byron had looked at his father, who was looking more concerned than ever, even more so than on the day Byron had fallen out of a tree and broken his arm. "Byron," his father had said, "you're not like other children. You're... special." Mr. Lewis had tried to smile, but the smile hadn't been very convincing. "You must never tell anyone what happens to you on your special nights, understand?"

"Why not?" Byron had said, blinking in confusion. He thought it was exciting. And everyone in the household knew. So why couldn't he tell anyone?

"If people find out about your condition, they will be afraid. Afraid of you."

"They won't want to be your friends any more," his mother said, and it was clear from the sadness in her eyes that she was telling the truth.

"So you will have to keep it a secret," his father said, putting his large hand on Byron's head and stroking his hair.

"But nanny knows," Byron whined, "and she's still my friend."

"Yes," his mother sighed, "but she knows you. She's known you since you were a baby, so she's not afraid of you. Of that you are different."

His father nodded: "Keep that in mind, Byron. People are always afraid those who are different."

\---

His father's words were still with him when Byron joined the Minutemen. By then, he had given up on trying to fit in. Even without revealing his secret nature, it seemed that Byron just couldn't be like other people. Or rather, he couldn't be the person his so-called peers expected him to be. Rich white folk who looked down on those who had been born a different race, or a different social class. He wasn't like them, and pretending just wasn't an option, not if he wanted to continue to be able to look at himself in the mirror.

At least with the Minutemen, he felt some sort of kinship. They were all hiding something, and Byron suspected that it wasn't just their true identities.

Everyone, that is, except for Bill.

Bill was a bit of a mystery, mostly because he was so completely open and honest about himself. Byron had been suspicious, at first, but the more he got to know Bill, the more he noticed that his whole corn-fed, up and honest country boy image wasn't an image, it was who Bill was, plain and simple. Where everyone else shrouded themselves in varying layers of mystery, Bill's mask really was just a piece of cloth he pulled over his head when he was working. Hell, Bill had told everyone his real name at the first meeting.

Having grown up in a world built on secrets and lies, Byron found himself drawn to Bill like the proverbial moth to the flame, and Bill didn't seem to mind in the least. Often, it would be Bill who suggested that they hang out for a while longer even after all of the others had called it a night.

One of those evenings, after the bar they had been sitting in had closed, Bill had suggested they move to his flat and continue their conversation. It was another thing Byron liked about Bill: he seemed to be interested in everything Byron had to say, even listened when Byron, with more than enough booze under his belt, would go into rather haphazard attempts to explain the finer points of socialism and the worker's revolution to him.

They were sitting on Bill's couch, talking and drinking beer, and then they were kissing, Bill's lips warm and soft against his, and Byron couldn't for the life of him remember how they had gotten there. The only thing he did know, though, was that he wanted more of it. That he had wanted this all along, even if he had been denying the thought every time it had tried to make its way to the front of his mind.

And then, they were in Bill's bed, his hands trying to find a way underneath Bill's shirt while Bill's mouth was sucking at the side of his neck. Byron could hear Bill's panting breath, heard him moan quietly, the weight of the other man's body pressing down on his.

The first time had been awkward and a little rough, and most of all it had been over way too quickly. But, having satisfied their immediate needs, they now had time to explore each other's bodies slowly, deliberately, and explore Byron did, with his hands, lips and tongue, causing Bill to moan his name over and over again. In the end, though, it had been Byron's voice that howled through the night, carrying his lover's name with it.

Byron had awoken at the crack of dawn, his head aching and his stomach filled with a horrible feeling of dread. Looking at Bill, who was still sleeping peacefully, Byron had decided to take a shower, hoping that the warm water would wash away whatever it was that was making him feel so uneasy. It hadn't, though, and Byron had ended up sitting in a chair across the room, wrapped in a blanket and watching Bill sleep.

When he finally woke up, Bill stretched, blinking, and then looked around in confusion until he spotted Byron huddled up in the chair.

"What are you sitting over there for?"

As if that question had turned a key in his mind, Byron suddenly knew what he had been dreading. His voice small, nervous, he answered: "Do you regret it? I mean... we both had a lot to drink..."

Bill shook his head, running a hand through his hair: "No. Do you?"

"No. Not a bit."

\---

There were days when Byron wondered how he had ever managed to be happy before he had met Bill. It was as if Bill were a second sun, able to give color and brightness even to things that had seemed dark and dreary before, and it was because of this that over time, Byron began to feel worse and worse. Bill was completely honest with him, just like with everyone he met, and Byron? Byron was still holding on to the secret that was the very core of his being. It felt almost as if Byron were cheating on his lover, giving Bill lie after lie about why he couldn’t see him on those nights. And Bill believed them all.

Today, it had been an imaginary deadline for an even more imaginary article. Instead of being at home typing like Bill undoubtedly thought he was, Byron was sitting at home drinking, trying to drown out his conscience and preparing for the transformation. He had found out that being a bit sloshed not only made it less uncomfortable, but also that it calmed the wolf. Even though the legends about bloodthirsty, man-eating beasts were a huge exaggeration, Byron still preferred being a drunk and caged wolf over being a sober and caged one. He had already had to change apartments twice, seeing how it always seemed to end up with the neighbours complaining about the noise and the landlord spying on him because they thought Byron was keeping a dog in his flat. Also, it wasn’t as if he hadn’t gotten out once or twice, and alcohol did wonders for killing off his hunting instincts.

For some reason, the arms and legs were the worst part. It wasn’t really painful, more like the pinpricks one gets when the leg falls asleep, but feeling, and most of all seeing his bones shrink and grow and rearrange themselves made Byron nauseous and weak. He was crouched on the floor between the sofa and the coffee table, and almost didn’t hear the knock on the door. Well, whoever it was, they would go away. Byron closed his eyes, focusing on his breathing, trying to make it as steady and quiet as possible, suppressing the groans that were trying to escape his chest.

“Byron? Are you in? It’s me, Bill.”

Byron’s gasp was loud enough to be heard through the door, and inwardly, he cursed himself for slipping up.

“Is everything all right?” Bill’s voice sounded concerned, and Byron could almost see him frown through the closed door. “I thought I’d come buy and bring you something to eat, since you sometimes forget that when you’re working…”

Damn him. Damn Bill for knowing his habits and weaknesses, and for being so goddamn caring.

“I’m fine,” Byron rasped, his voice sounding strange and way too high even for his own ears.

“You sure? You sound strange.”

The doorknob turned, and Byron panicked. He’d forgotten to lock the door, he’d been too busy drinking and feeling sorry for himself, and he had forgotten to lock the door.

“Go away!” It was almost a howl, a scared, frenzied sound, and then Byron’s human voice snapped and died. His vision blurred, and one by one, his senses failed as his face rearranged itself, enveloping him in a fuzzy gray darkness.

The last thing Byron remembered of that night was Bill, standing in the doorway, eyes wide and face white as chalk, the bag of Chinese takeout falling from his hand as he stood there, gaping. And then the wolf was running, running away, pushing through the gap between the man’s legs and the door, his claws clicking on the polished linoleum of the hallway.

\---

Once Byron had made his way back to his apartment, naked and covered in scratches from the underbrush he had been slinking through, he didn’t leave it again for days. He didn’t go out on patrol or for meetings, because he knew Bill would be there, and he couldn’t face that.

Instead, Byron drank, until the days and nights blurred together to one formless, endless haze and his thoughts were washed away by the never-ending supply of booze. He should probably pack up and leave, go to California or someplace equally far away, somewhere with no Bill. But he didn’t.

Byron didn’t know how much time had passed between the fateful knock on his door and this one, but his answer was the same as it had been back then.

“Go away!”

He could hear the shuffling of feet in front of his door, and then: “No. Let me in.”

Bill sounded frightened and determined at the same time, like a man who was about to jump off a cliff, hoping that the dark sea below wouldn’t swallow him forever.

Byron got up, opened the door, and then stumbled back to the couch, where he picked up an empty bottle and clutched it to his chest. For a while, both men were silent. Byron heard Bill sit down in the armchair that was next to the table, and clear his throat: “So you’re a werewolf, then?”

Dragging his gaze over to Bill, Byron just looked at him, frowning. It hadn’t sounded like an accusation, more like a statement of an accepted fact.

“I’m a little naïve, sometimes, but I’m not stupid.” Bill sighed. “You always have time for me, unless it’s around the full moon. I grew up on a farm, I notice that kind of regular thing, you know? And then I open your door and there’s a wolf in the middle of your living room.”

Bill picked up an empty shot glass from the table, rolling it between his palms. Bill had always needed something to occupy his hands with.

“A wolf,” he repeated, “and I’ve never seen one like that before. I mean, I’ve seen pictures and wolves at the zoo, but you, you’re…” Bill faltered, looking at the glass in his hands, then back at Byron, a peculiar shyness in his voice: “You’re beautiful.”

It hit Byron like a shot to the heart. He’d have reckoned with anything – terrible, scary, strange – but beautiful? Nobody had ever called him that, not even his mother. Nobody but Bill. Byron felt his throat constrict, tears welling up in his eyes, and he quickly turned his head away before asking, in a whisper: “You’re not scared of me?”

Bill got up and sat down next to Byron, wrapping his arms around him: “A bit. But… you didn’t attack me, and there’s never been anything in the papers about strange dog attacks around full moon. I checked. So I figure, you’re not dangerous.” A short pause, then: “Are you?”

Byron shook his head forcefully: “No! I’m not dangerous. I wouldn’t ever hurt you, or anybody.” He sniffled, wiping his nose with the back of his hand, charging on: “We don’t go around attacking people, that’s not true, I mean, I sometimes get an itch when I see a deer or a rabbit, it’s just instinct, but if I’m not hungry, I won’t even go after those…”

“That’s what I thought,” Bill said, placing a kiss on Byron’s temple. “You’re such a nice guy, I just can’t see you going after people who never done you or anybody any harm. But… um… I hope you don’t mind me asking, but how did you get to be a werewolf? I thought you got to be one by being bitten or something like that.“

Somehow, Bill’s obvious embarrassment made Byron feel a little less scared, and a bit more secure. Again, he shook his head: “No. I was born this way. It’s hereditary. Meaning, it runs in the family. My mother is a werewolf, too.”

“Your mother?” Bill exclaimed, looking more confused by this than by the fact that Byron sometimes hunted deer. Byron almost had to chuckle.

“Yes, my mother,” Byron said, his mouth twitching into a smile, “women can be werewolves, too.”

“No, it’s not that,” Bill said, shaking his head, “it’s just that you showed me a picture once and she looks so… so small and elegant.”

Now, Byron couldn’t hold back his amusement any more: “Be honest, Bill. I don’t look like how you think a werewolf would look if he was in human form, either, do I?”

Bill’s grin was slightly embarrassed: “Not really.” But then, his expression softened, and he reached up to stroke Byron’s cheekbone with his thumb: “But still, I knew it was you the moment I saw him. You. You two look alike, if you know what you’re looking for.”

Byron leaned in, placing a careful kiss on Bill’s lips.

“So, is there anything else I need to know about werewolves?” Bill asked, smiling.

“Yes,” Byron said, returning his lover’s smile, “we usually mate for life.”


End file.
